


Shiver

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fade to Black, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Season/Series 02, Shirtless Reese, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 21:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14221839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: Harold stitches up a wound, and accidentally reveals how much he dislikes it when Reese gets hurt.





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> someone take this ship away from me!!! (except, don't)

Finch concentrates with single-minded focus on keeping his hands steady and his breaths even while he stitches John up. It is not until he has pulled the last loop through and trimmed off the end, that Harold allows himself to think of John's flesh as flesh, rather than fabric. By now John is very good at lying still, unflinching, helping to maintain that illusion.

Even after working with John for almost two years, Harold remains not great at dealing with the sight of blood. He's especially not comfortable with John's blood on his hands. 

He puts down his equipment and peels off his gloves, heading to the sink to wash his clammy palms. He takes a few deep, calming breaths, trying to relieve the sense of painful tension in his shoulders and neck. 

Behind him, John sits up on the padded bench, holding his arm up so he can glance down at his newly-sutured side. "Nice work, Finch. Very neat. It probably won't even scar." He comments lightly, as though all this is a joke to him. A pleasant diversion. John picks through the first aid kit himself and smooths a large adhesive band-aid over the row of stitches.

Harold twists the faucet closed a little too hard. "Do you enjoy making me worry?" He spits out. He hadn't meant to say a word. He stands awkwardly facing away from John, not looking at him, avoiding the mirror on the wall above the sink too. Wishing he could stuff the words back in his mouth and swallow them. His hands slowly drip onto the floor, droplets of water sliding over his wrists and down his forearms. He ought to pick up a towel, but he's apparently frozen in place. Suddenly, absurdly, he wants to cry. Every time that he hears John gasp in pain over the connection...he goes through the same flurry of awful thoughts.  _How badly is he hurt? Has our luck run out? Is this the day I lose him?_ And John never tells him the extent of it in so many words, just arrives back at the library with red on his shirt. Or doesn't arrive at all.

Harold's gazing blindly at the wall when John steps in front of him. Harold brings his wet hands together, one fist around the other, rubbing them anxiously under his own chin. He glances over John's torso, observing the scars he knows were already there, fastidiously scanning for new ones. An imperfect canvas, scratched and imprinted and bruised. But a beautiful one. John's smooth, tan skin, the barely visible chest hair, the dusky brown of his nipples - Harold shuts his eyes tight. He doesn't allow himself to look at John that way. Refuses to take advantage of his vulnerability.

He takes half a step away, and John's hands alight on his shoulders. Harold freezes yet again at the touch.  _He knows._

The hands rest there, not heavy, not squeezing, but warm and real. Harold lets out a stuttering breath through his nose, and with it, some of the sharper pain in his back. Gradually John's hands wander from his shoulders, very gently stroking his upper arms, down and up again, progressing a little further each time, until he's touching Harold's elbows.

Harold finally cracks open his eyes and forces himself to look at John's face, shame replaced by hope.

John's eyes are shining. He looks very... earnest. He opens his mouth to answer Harold's question. "Not the worry. But stitching me up... it's one of the few times you really show you care." 

Somehow, Harold finds his voice. "If you need evidence of my regard, Mr. Reese..." He trails off. John leans impossibly nearer.

Harold makes an embarrassingly high-pitched noise when their lips meet. John grins, smug as anything, until Harold slips his tongue into his open mouth. It ceases to be funny, then, as cautious heat builds between them.

"Touch me." John mutters, into the tiny space between kisses.

"I've wet hands," he objects, not wanting to make John shiver.

John grabs Harold's arms and wraps them around him. Suddenly, Harold has an expanse of soft, scarred skin at his fingertips. He touches John's naked back. And John does shiver, but only in the best ways.


End file.
